“Were you one of Daniel’s doctors?”
Davis shook her head. “I’m an internist. Was. They’re putting me out to pasture at the end of the year, although really it happened a long time ago.” She smiled vaguely. “I remember Daniel well enough. Just a slip of a thing. Looked so small in that big bed.”
“Do you recall anything unusual about the case?”
“He was eight years old, had suffered some sort of head trauma as the result of the car accident, was initially conscious and lapsed into a coma on the way to the hospital.”
“Who was his doctor?”
A small twitch ticked the corner of Davis’s mouth. “George Peters. Head of neurology here for decades. One of the best.”
“I assume he’s no longer on staff?”
“Passed away five years ago. May I ask why all the interest?”
“Daniel’s involved in a criminal case. He’s not implicated, but he has been subjected to a certain amount of emotional trauma.”
“Are you talking about his brother?”
“You knew Harry Fitzsimmons?”
“He was Daniel’s only visitor during his time here. Three times a week he’d show up and sit at the foot of the bed. Stay for hours at a time. I heard about his death on the news. Such a waste.”
“Yes.”
“I guess I’m still not clear on how Daniel’s time here might fit in?”
“I’m not sure either. The detective working the case is a friend and asked me to take a look.”
“I see.”
“Without revealing too much, I think the police are concerned the trauma of Harry’s death might somehow provoke a reaction in Daniel. A little strange, I know.”
“Lots of strange in the world. And lots of strange in Daniel’s time here.”
“How so?”
Davis peeled back her lips, revealing long teeth and a glimpse of the predator the woman must have once been. “My door’s closed?”
Cat glanced behind her. “Yes.”
“Good. There’s no record of what I’m about to tell you anywhere so don’t bother looking. And don’t bother asking anyone here about it. Agreed?”
“Sure.”
“George Peters and I were close. Probably not hard to tell, right?”
“I saw a twitch.”
“Really?”
“It was either hate or love. I tend to root for the latter.”
“He was married, but I was still young enough up here.” Davis tapped her temple with a skinny finger. “Bottom line is I didn’t give a damn.”
“And now?”
“Even less. If it’s real, you’ll never regret it. And will pay any price. But who wants to hear about an old lady’s love life?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, right. George was a talent. He had an unerring instinct when it came to diagnosis and an extraordinary sense of compassion for his patients. Daniel’s case troubled him like few others.”
“How so?”
Davis raised her chin a fraction and Cat caught a brief glimpse of a pair of gray irises swimming furiously beneath the skim of white. “What you’ll find in the file is a fairly standard recitation of Daniel’s admission, an initial examination, and subsequent patient assessment.”
“And?”
“George could never pinpoint the actual nature of Daniel’s head injury. He ordered x-rays and conducted periodic brain scans during the entire time the boy was unconscious. If you look through the data, you’ll find low-level brain activity typically associated with a coma.”
“But?”
“Let’s take a walk.” Davis got up quickly, slipping into a black coat that hung on a hook behind her. She took four measured strides to the door and waited for Cat to open it. Then she touched Cat’s sleeve and pointed to an elevator almost directly across the hall.
“Seventh floor.”
Neither woman spoke as the elevator climbed. On the seventh floor, Ruth directed Cat to an empty room overlooking an alley. The bed had been stripped of its linens and the room smelled of dust and death.
“This was Daniel’s room,” Davis said. “You see the door on the far side of the bed? It leads to the roof.”
“The roof?”
“I’ll explain when we get there.”
Cat took them through the door and up a run of rough metal steps. The roof was flat and covered in a dull sheen of tar that had cracked and webbed in a dozen different directions. Cat jammed her hands in the pockets of her trench coat. “Why are we up here, Ruth?”
“Walk me over to the edge.”
Cat felt a twist in her gut but did as the woman asked. The facade of the building was ancient. Cat touched a brick with her foot and watched it crumble, loose chunks tumbling into the alley below. Davis’s hand slipped to the small of Cat’s back, grabbing at the belt on her coat.
“Watch it.”
The old woman had a strong grip and it was all Cat could do to break free, nearly pitching herself over the edge in the process. She circled to her left, keeping Davis at arm’s length.
“Nervous, Ms. McShane?”
“Should I be?”
“You’re wondering what was missing from Daniel’s file.”
“If you want to tell me something, that’s great. If not . . .”
“The brain scans. The real ones. They’re not in there.”
“Why?”
Davis raised one hand in front of her face and began to surf it up and down. “Daniel’s brain was fluctuating wildly the entire time he was here. High-level activity for a period of time, subsiding to levels you’d expect to find in someone who was comatose, then more spikes. George finally figured out the pattern. Three hours on, six off. Over and over and over again.”
“What did Peters think?”
“This was 1968, remember.”
“So what?”
“It was the first time I’d ever heard anyone use the term ‘computer.’ George explained how the machines processed information at amazing rates. Talked about ‘work cycles’ and ‘batch processing.’ Said that’s what Daniel appeared to be doing. As you can probably tell, none of it made any sense to me.”
“How was it Daniel remained unconscious if his brain was so active?”
“George never figured that out. He tried several times to rouse Daniel during the active cycles but got nowhere. Then one day we walked into the room and the boy was sitting up in bed, wide awake, looking for his breakfast.”
“And Peters never included any of this in the boy’s history?”
“He thought Daniel might be studied if the medical community got hold of the scans. Made out to be a freak show. My overall feeling was he was protecting Daniel. Can’t be sure, but that would have been George.”
“I assume no one ever told Daniel about the scans?”
“The boy hardly spoke. And when he did, he could only recall bits and pieces of the accident and, of course, nothing from his time in the coma. We left it that way.”
“Thanks, Ruth. I’m not sure any of this is relevant to Harry’s death, but I appreciate it.” Cat touched the old woman at the elbow, turning her toward the door and the stairs feeding down into the building.
“I didn’t say we were done.”
“No?”
“Daniel woke up on the morning of March first, 1969. He was discharged four days later. The morning of March fifth. Harry picked him up.”
“All right.”
“Forty minutes after they left, a security guard found one of our attendants in the alley below. He jumped off this roof, from just about the spot where you’re standing.”
Cat couldn’t help but peek again. The air between the buildings was swirling and dark and full of echoes. Ruth Davis’s voice lived in her ear.
“The attendant’s name was Lawrence Rosen. He’d never actually been part of the team that worked on Daniel’s case, but George had his suspicions.”
“Are you saying this guy might have been bothering Daniel?”
“After Rosen’s death, a couple of employees came to George and claimed Rosen used to visit Daniel at night. George had examined Daniel before his discharge. There was no obvious evidence of molestation or other physical contact, but the staff members were insistent. They said Rosen was obsessed with the boy.”
“What about the morning Rosen jumped?”
“Best we could tell, Rosen was last seen on the seventh floor, near Daniel’s room, roughly an hour before Daniel was discharged.”
“Was Daniel in his room?”
“For about a half hour, yes.”
“So the two could have been alone, in a room with a door that led to this roof?”
“Unlikely, but possible.”
“Why unlikely?”
“There was a steady stream of people coming in and out that morning. Daniel had been here six months so there was a lot of do. A lot of folks involved.”
“Did anyone see Rosen alive after Daniel was discharged?”
Davis shook her head. “The next time anyone saw him, Rosen was dead in the alley. George was in charge of the hospital’s inquiry and made sure the death was classified as a suicide. Then we forgot about the whole thing.”
“Why tell me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought if there was a chance Daniel was involved in another death . . .”
“The police don’t think he killed Harry.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Did you really think that was a possibility?”
“As I said, I hardly knew Daniel. A handful of conversations before he was discharged.”
“And yet you seem afraid of him.”
“Do I?”
“Do you think he killed Rosen?”
“Did he come up onto the roof with Rosen and push him off? No.”
“Then what?”
“Have you ever met Daniel?”
“No.”
“George thought he might possess the ability to influence people, affect their behavior. Perhaps even unwittingly.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. By talking to them, thinking about them. George was never clear.”
“So you’re saying Daniel walked your attendant off this roof without ever leaving his bed?”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
“There was something there. Something heavy . . .”
“Heavy?”
“When Daniel looked at you, really focused, there was a heaviness inside your skull. I remember it quite distinctly, almost like you were falling asleep or being pulled into a rip current, one that was very fast and very deep.” Davis tipped her face up again, raising blind eyes to a broken sky. “I’m sorry. It all sounds strange, I know.”
“I appreciate your taking the time.”
“Please remember I’ll deny any of this to the police. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Daniel’s not a suspect.”
“Good. I’m cold. Let’s go downstairs and find some lunch.”
Ruth Davis turned on her heel and walked directly to the door that led downstairs. Maybe she’d been able to see the whole time. Maybe she was familiar with the route. Maybe she was just guessing. Fifteen minutes later, the two women were being shown to a table at Maison Robert. Cat excused herself and found a pay phone. She dropped in some coins and dialed a number.
29
BARKLEY SWIPED at the phone, knocking the entire thing off his nightstand. Whoever had called was now talking a blue streak to the bedroom rug. Barkley uncoiled an arm, feeling along the floor until he found the receiver and lifted it to his ear.
“Yeah.”
The talker had been replaced by a dial tone. Good riddance. Barkley replaced the receiver and felt around again until he located a box of Chinese takeout. He’d closed Early’s, then gone to an all-night place in Cambridge called Aku Aku and gotten his regular, 13-A with extra pork strips and hot mustard. Barkley chewed on a cold egg roll as he trudged down the hallway. In the kitchen he found a couple trays of ice and dumped them into a sink full of water. Barkley buried his head in the basin, letting the cold burn his brain for a full minute before resurfacing like an orca, blowing water and groping for a towel. He sat at the kitchen table and dripped, consoling himself with the idea he didn’t get drunk very often. All the alkies he’d ever known had told themselves that on their way to a lifetime of bad coffee in Styrofoam cups and AA meetings with a bunch of other miserable, dried-out motherfuckers counting their dubious blessings while inwardly jonesing for one more run at a hip flask full of the good old days. Barkley put on the kettle and made himself a cup of instant, letting the hot black liquid sear his throat and water his eyes.
The phone rang again. Jesus H. Christ. He picked up in the hall. It was Charlie Herbert. According to Ma Bell, the phone in Nick Toney’s studio had been out for the past ten days. And yes, there was a pay phone in the hall two floors below. The photographer was telling the truth. Barkley wasn’t surprised. He thanked Herbert and tried to hang up, but the uniform wasn’t done. It was past noon and people at the station were wondering where Barkley and his partner might be. Barkley carefully explained they were working a murder and people should go fuck themselves. Herbert was going on about the captain and the media when Barkley cut the line, leaving the receiver off the hook.
He poured himself a second cup of coffee and settled in the living room with Cat McShane’s autopsy report. Tucked inside the front cover was a photo of the puncture wounds that killed Harry Fitzsimmons. There were three of them on the left side of the football player’s chest. A second photo showed a close-up of the two exit wounds in his back. Cat wasn’t kidding. The kid had been put on a spit and gutted. Barkley took a sip of coffee. He kind of liked working hungover. Calmed his brain. Next he’d be wanting a slug of rum with his morning shower. Barkley gave the report a quick skim. The punctures that had killed Fitzsimmons entered his body at a slightly downward angle, indicating the killer was most likely standing over his victim. Barkley thought about that for a minute, the killer taking down Fitzsimmons with a knife to the belly, then pulling out a second weapon to finish him. Didn’t make a ton of sense, but murders rarely did.
He read for another hour, scribbling thoughts in one of his black notebooks as he went. When he was done, he arranged the autopsy report and notebook on a table by the front door where they’d be easy to find. If anyone wanted to follow up, more power to them.
In the kitchen he sat at the table and stared at his boots and coat. He could hear the whispers coming from his fire escape and knew this would be the day. He could see the anchor rods shearing, the mass of bars and bolts shivering and creaking in the breeze, then slowly pulling away from the building. He was falling now, no present, no future, the past sloughing off like old skin. It would happen today. His last ride. About fucking time, too.
He pulled on the boots and coat and stepped out, hearing the brittle metal groan and speak and sing its seduction. He found his spot on the windowsill and sat there, picking up his potting soil for the last time, sinking his thumb through the hard crust and finding soft earth below. Barkley pulled out his smokes and lit up. It was like his vision had been enhanced, allowing him to see all the seams in the grated floor, silent fractures in the iron, how the whole thing hung together, how it would all come apart. He was in Tommy’s fairy ring now. And there was no getting out. Who would ever want to?
Barkley took a pull on his cigarette and blew out a fine blue haze. She moved through it like an ocean tide, taking no form he could later recall, sitting close enough so he could smell the powdered scent of jasmine. It was the woman from Hom’s. Of course it was. She gestured for a cigarette and lit up, the red enamel of her ring winking and flashing as years slipped past and decades followed. Barkley realized he could see right through her and watched smoke run like a river down her throat and swirl in her chest. Then she exhaled, tendrils of pure light, crimson and yellow and orange and green, c
urling and blooming with flowers, wrapping around the bars of the fire escape, creeping up the side of the building and rushing toward the pavement below. The woman flicked her cigarette into the ether and glanced at Barkley with her liquid eyes. No concussion this time. No uncovering. She was simply here, sitting with him in the bottom of the hole he’d dug for himself, holding time as she held his hand, telling him it was every bit as real as unreal and that if he dared to believe, dared to let go, the soul he grieved for every moment of every day would be his and he’d be hers. They’d be nothing. And so much more. But only if. And then the woman was gone. And Barkley was alone again, in the cold on the fire escape, listening to the wind sing and the iron creak.
He stepped back through the window to find the hammer from that day twelve years ago sitting on the kitchen table. Alongside it were a half-dozen silver nails. Barkley would have sworn the hammer hadn’t been there before, but who was present to listen? Who was present to grieve? So he took his time, driving fresh nails into old wood, feeling each bite and then testing to make sure the window in his pantry was pegged shut. Fuck the landlord. And fuck the fire hazard, too.
He took a long shower, scrubbing himself with soap and letting the scurf slick off his body and down the drain. He’d left his car downtown because of the drink, so it was the Orange Line today. The train arrived on a rush of warm wind and grease. He stood near the door, hanging on to a strap and turning his mind again to the case because what else was there now? Maybe Tommy had called in with an address for Walter Price. Barkley hoped so. Like any good homicide detective, he didn’t want to dig any deeper than he had to. But there were things in the case that bothered him—small things, big things, things with roots. Barkley knew all about roots. And how they could strangle the life out of a man.
30
THE FLECKED and formless beast stood in the doorway of a skin show, sloping slabs for shoulders and a bull neck, fleshed nose split in the middle and small, pink eyes needling down the block. She was leaning against a lamppost, tall and gawky, young, potent without knowing it. She wore a short jacket that shined. Under it, a sheer white dress with Daffy Duck and Tweety Bird printed all over in bright blossoms of color. The girl scuffed her shoe on the pavement and tossed her head. The wind shifted and the beast scented blood. He lifted a pinch of cigarette to his lips, then tossed the butt into the gutter and stepped out of the doorway. They talked for less than a minute, the girl pulling away once before settling, the man slipping a hand to the small of her back and gesturing for her to go first.
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